


today is always gone tomorrow

by Maria_Antonina



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of parental neglect, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_Antonina/pseuds/Maria_Antonina
Summary: Claude's journey from Garreg Mach to the seat of power was not quite as smooth as he made it out to be.Or: Fódlan isn't kind to Claude. It isn't kind to anyone, but it feels like it has it out for Claude in particular.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 50
Kudos: 122





	1. 1180:  we arrive here improvised

_Nothing can ever happen twice._

_In consequence, the sorry fact is_

_that we arrive here improvised_

_and leave without the chance to practice._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

Claude didn’t see Byleth fall.

He was on the other side of the battlefield, doing his best to hide his terror and hold back the enemy soldiers from overtaking the south gate. Somewhere nearby, Marianne was keeping watch, making sure that nobody stumbled over Ignatz’s unconscious body while their joint battalions helped the evacuation effort. Claude had always been good at keeping track of people, and in the last year he’d only refined that talent, but even he had trouble dividing his attention when faced with a staggering force of the imperial army.

His wyvern had been long gone now, shot down early on by a suspiciously familiar flash of purple energy, and he lost his bow in the fall. And so there he was, surrounded by much-better armoured foes and clumsily swinging around a sword he swiped off the ground, closer to death with each passing second, when he heard the first roar.

Claude didn’t turn to look, at first, because he wasn’t an idiot. He cut down the less experienced opponents who allowed themselves to be startled by the beastly howl, some of his men following suit, others falling for the same tactic from the other side. 

When the dragon rose into the air, releasing a burst of flames into the valley, just for a second, everything stopped. Soldiers on both sides momentarily lowered their weapons, and even Claude found himself shocked into stillness, staring at the magnificent creature soaring through the air. 

_The Immaculate One_. 

After that display, the battle dissolved into utter chaos. Some abandoned their struggle completely, cutting down friend and foe just to get away from the spreading fire; others fought with renewed vigour, either through fear or holy fervor. Claude quickly found himself in an unfortunately familiar position -- alone and overwhelmed, unable to tell up from down and surviving purely on luck. They had to hold back the attack until the monastery was evacuated, but it’s been hours, and no signal for retreat was sounded. 

Claude wasn’t about to die here-- until a steel-plated elbow crashed into his chest, and he found himself falling. Gods, he _was_ going to die here--

A javelin knocked the axe off course just as it came down to split Claude’s head, and landed just close enough for him to snatch it and stick it right in between the plates under the soldier’s underarm. Claude managed to roll over before the hulking body landed on top of him, and just as he attempted to stumble to his feet, he was being lifted up by the collar and thrown bodily over a horse.

“Do you have a deathwish?!,” Leonie barked, barely audible over the hoofbeats and Claude’s own racing heartbeat. 

Claude didn’t. But as he raised his head, the last thing he saw before passing out was the dragon falling out of the sky.

*

He had several theories regarding what happened that day.

He didn’t have a whole lot of time to think them through, which was perhaps why all of them were severely lacking in reason. One dealt with a portal to the demon dimension opening up underneath Garreg Mach, and he managed to discard it after a meal and a nap. 

...Which, it was worth mentioning, were infrequent at best. Leonie had graciously dropped him off with Marianne, who’d at that point joined the evacuees in their march north. Claude was battered and exhausted, and remained unconscious long enough for no small amount of panic to ensue. He woke up to Hilda scolding Lorenz over insensitive -- although, in hindsight, rational -- comments, only to promptly black out once more. That had been the last long rest he could afford. 

Lorenz, suggestions of leaving Claude at the side of the road notwithstanding, proved invaluable during their slow march towards Alliance territory. With the Knights of Seiros gone, he’d taken over the decision making, writing to his father to inform him -- rather than ask, which was a pretty gutsy move -- of a group of refugees from Garreg Mach seeking relief in his lands. He organised the work, assigned patrols and poured over maps to pick out a route accessible to carts and the wounded. He’d even commandeered horses off the soldiers not tasked with scouting ahead, and used them to help carry the infirm and the cargo. Claude thought Lorenz would relish in his self-imposed duty, but he looked as haunted and tired as the rest of them.

Meanwhile, when not busy wracking his brain about dragons and divine powers, Claude wrote letters. They had no ravens, and no more horses to spare for messengers, but he needed them ready as soon as they reached civilization again, and he needed so, so many.

To Count Gloucester, thanking him for his hospitality, because he’d need more than one favour from the bugger before the year was due. To his grandfather, with a brief summary of events and the key players involved -- the old man was getting on with age, but he could hold the fort until Claude’s return to Derdriu. To Judith, suggesting an increase in border control and keeping a careful eye over her Kingdom neighbours. He badgered Hilda until she wrote to her brother, too, with just the slightest hint that, for the time being, Fódlan’s Locket wasn’t to be his biggest concern. Lysithea broke off as soon as they confirmed the imperial army wasn’t chasing them, taking her battalion and a short note from Claude addressed to her parents. He had variations of the same missive ready to be delivered to every Kingdom noble he ever heard of, and their offspring he knew from the monastery too. 

He didn’t bother writing to Dimitri. 

“Claude?”

He startled, looking up to the sight of Ignatz and Raphael, packed up and ready to split off towards their own town. It shouldn’t feel this… significant, he knew, but they spent over a year as a group. Each of his classmates leaving felt like the Fire Emperor’s mask slipping, all over again. 

Raphael seemed uncomfortable, the great big bruise over his jaw fading to a sickly green colour. Ignatz, skull freshly mended courtesy of Marianne, had this concerned expression on his face that Claude particularly disliked. 

“Is it time already?,” he asked, knowing full well that it was. The evacuees -- refugees, really -- were in the midst of gathering up the camp, reading themselves for another day of travel. He hadn’t slept. “Well, you know where to find me, when it’s time.”

“Yes, of course,” Ignatz rubbed at his eyes. Nobody slept well on the road. “Claude, we need to ask you something, and--,” he chewed on his lip, weighing his words. “And I’d like it if you were honest, please.”

Claude put down the draft of a letter to the king of Brigid -- a meandering affair he’d have to rewrite anyway -- and steeled himself. 

“Do you have a plan? Now that the professor is… gone.”

Amusingly enough, this was not one of his theories.

*

Here was the problem: despite everything that occurred, to Claude, the year at the monastery was the easiest of his life.

He was seven when he was first introduced to the Almyran court, and eight when he became aware of the frequent poisoning attempts. It took him until his Marking Ceremony at thirteen to look at food with anything approaching interest again. He hadn’t known privacy until he first escaped Nader’s supervision and spent two weeks on the road, nearly dying in the process. He’d watched his mother suffer one indignity after another, all to keep him safe, only to break down screaming and pelt his father with his own scepter when she found yet another venomous snake in Claude’s bed.

In Garreg Mach, everyone ate from the same pot, noble or commoner. His paltry indigestion potions were treated like toying with the unforgivable. They were given wooden or blunted weapons to train with, and had high-positioned students focusing their training on healing magic. Once a month, a monk would spray the entire dorms with a concoction meant to scare away any unwanted critters. In a word, anytime Claude came so much as into vicinity of a risk, someone would promptly swoop in to save his hide. It was a delight.

It made him soft, too, but in ways he couldn’t bring himself to regret. The afternoons spent falling off trees, just to impress a girl he could barely communicate with. Teasing a classmate until she threw a fireball at him. Sneaking off for a drink in the town, despite knowing that the gatekeeper would tattle to Seteth. It was all so innocent, some nights he’d wake up with a start, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did.

Claude’s entire life before meeting Teach centered around survival, around getting ahead of everyone else. Then, for an entire year, he had this silent, solid rock of an authority firmly positioned in his corner, never judging, just… being there for him. For all of them. 

Until Edelgard showed her true colours, at least. Returning him to his normal. 

“You look dreadful.”

Despite his best attempts, Hilda wouldn’t leave him alone. For all intents and purposes, she’d overstayed her welcome at the Gloucester estate, regardless of Lorenz’s assurances otherwise. Claude’s ribs were still mending, even magic having its limits, and so he wasn’t allowed onto a wyvern for another week, but Hilda could’ve been off to Goneril territory days ago. Her brother had been writing increasingly concerned letters, and Count Gloucester began dropping less and less subtle allusions over meals. Hilda had so far cheerfully ignored each suggestion, forced Claude on daily walks around the estate’s lush gardens, and every night, point eleven o’clock, came to confiscate every single candle Claude could possibly put his hands on. 

“Well, thanks to you I have to write by moonlight,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He badly needed to shave; he was beginning to resemble his father, and chairing a Roundtable meeting like this was not going to help his chances. “How may I help you this fine morning?”

He’d been given a guest bedroom some ways away from the family chambers. The Count no doubt meant it as a veiled insult, but Claude could not care less for courtly politics; not when the Alliance was, in all but name, at war. Hilda’s room was far enough that her evening visits were causing something of a stir in the gossip circles. 

“You could stop worrying me, for one,” she crossed her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised elegantly in reproach.

“Hilda, I--”

“Don’t give me that,” she cut in, expression darkening. “Talking to you is like handling a hedgehog, and I’m sick of it.”

“I--”

“If you try to lecture me on the realities of war again, I swear to Goddess I’ll smack the daylights out of you. So don’t even start.”

She stood over him, fuming, and looked like a picture from before all this insanity started. Perfectly put together and smelling faintly of her floral perfume, in an overly formal gown lent to her by one of Lorenz’s many cousins. Meanwhile, Claude’s jaw was itchy, the insides of his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and he had ink stains all the way down to his elbows. He could feel the rift between them widen even as they silently stared at each other. 

When Hilda broke the stillness, there were tears in her eyes. She valiantly blinked them away, and turned around, strolling over to the window as if she needed some physical distance.

Given her previous reactions, Claude kept his mouth shut. That she couldn’t bear to look at him was… surprisingly painful. He went to clean away the ink stains at the washbasin, just as she began speaking again.

“I’m not oblivious, you know,” she said, and inhaled deeply before continuing. “I’ve been watching you, this past year. You’ve never been completely open with me, and I didn’t need you to be. But maybe that was the wrong approach.”

Claude felt his shoulder stiffen and wondered, where he to turn around, would Hilda be looking at him again? He was torn between this new, desperate need for someone to _see_ , and the lifelong instinct to hide. He was absurdly grateful at how difficult the ink stains were to remove.

“I thought, we are friends, right? Pushing you would be so much effort. You’d just tell me stuff eventually. The professor was always there for that, though, wasn’t he? Like a well. You couldn’t help but pour everything into it. Now he’s gone, and you’re just… spilling over the edges.”

He watched his knuckles turn white as he dug his fingers into the edges of the washbasin. They had this conversation once already. They ended up disagreeing. 

“Maybe you’re right!,” she hastened to add, clearly remembering the same thing. “Maybe he isn’t dead. But he isn’t here, right now, and I _worry_ about you.”

They turned to face each other simultaneously, and both startled a little. Hilda gave him a wry smile, before crossing the room to put a hand on his arm. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, Claude didn’t quite know what to say.

“Edelgard didn’t have friends,” Hilda said quietly. “And Dimitri stopped listening to his. Don’t-- don’t let this happen to you, too, Claude.”


	2. 1181: can't repeat the class in summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the stakes become higher, Claude realises he isn't as prepared as he thought he was.
> 
> (Or: People start dying. Which wasn't part of the plan.)

_Even if there is no one dumber,_

_if you're the planet's biggest dunce,_

_you can't repeat the class in summer:_

_this course is only offered once._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

Time seemed to slip through his fingers like sand, and he found himself struggling to spin all the plates he needed to have in the air. Even with Judith’s near-constant presence in Derdriu, Claude’s allies were still few and far-between. He’d managed to carve out a sensible -- if, apparently, irreverent -- reputation amongst the Alliance lords, but that rarely translated to votes in favour of his ideas, and so Claude had to scheme. With his grandfather spending more of his days bed-bound than not, he was also tasked with the day-to-day running of the land. While it was much easier to maneuver the small pawns across the board with such access, Claude had to appoint a clerk just to manage the numbers.

Which, of course, had its own drawbacks.

“You need to put a stop to this charade,” Lorenz murmured, barely audible over the song of the choir. Neither of them were particularly devout, and so the weekly mass was the perfect time to exchange information whenever Lorenz visited Derdriu. “The rumours are becoming vicious.”

“Gossip doesn’t concern me,” he whispered back. “Have you spoken to Hilda?”

“Yes, and she also wants you to stop being a brat.” They kneeled at the appropriate moment, silent until the priestess finished her first blessing. It gave Claude time to imagine what, exactly, Hilda had said, and shudder. “It’s too risky, and I personally find him loathsome. I can’t imagine how you keep the act up.”

“It’s not all bad,” Claude smirked, gracefully pretending not to notice the blush colouring Lorenz’ ears. “Hilda, though. Has she gotten them across?”

Lorenz nodded, unable to speak when the chorus fell silent once more to let the priestess monologue. That nod, though, was all Claude needed to make good on his plans. What couldn’t he do, with a team of spies in the Empire able to sneak under Hubert’s nose? Lord Vestra was going to pop a vein once he found out. It just about made inviting a viper into his bed worth the bad taste in his mouth.

Sihon, a handsome man of uncertain origin who’d appeared at Derdriu court shortly before Lord Riegan began falling ill, was certainly a godsend of a clerk. Courteous, knowledgeable, fluent in three languages and skilled with a lance, he made for a perfect assistant for a guy as busy as Claude. Even now, he was patiently waiting for him outside the chapel, and not at all frantically breaking into his desk to copy the planted paperwork and make it back in time before the end of mass. In a way, he had to be admired -- even pretending to be oblivious to Sihon’s true employer, Claude wasn’t making it easy on him. Hubert would know, if he did. 

Lorenz, more concerned with appearances than Claude, made sure to perform the entire act of repentance before dropping his final bomb:

“Oh, and Leonie is coming to the capitol. She was… instrumental, according to Hilda, and now needs a word.” Few things surprised Claude, and Lorenz took evident pleasure in managing to shock him. “Do get rid of the spy, before she steps in.”

*

Two events of significance happened in Blue Sea Moon, and neither of them were Claude’s nineteenth birthday. He’d never been terribly precious about those, anyway, which was lucky, because he’d be in for a huge disappointment before the actual day arrived.

Firstly, Leonie snuck into Derdriu just as Lorenz predicted, using as cover the barrage of nobles and their retinues, leaving the city after the Roundtable conference ended for the season. She was wearing an unfamiliar armour, something rough and cobbled together rather than her fitted Academy chain shirt. She had also, as Claude discovered as he jumped off the roof to corner her in an alleyway, grown taller than him. 

“Goddess almighty!,” she screeched, shoving him into the wall. It took her a second to recognise him in commoner garb; normally, he’d joke, but even breathing seemed precarious with a blade at his throat. “Claude-- I could’ve killed you!”

“I’m beginning to realise that,” he whispered, feeling the sharp edge of her dagger press into his skin as he spoke. “Put that down, please?”

“I was going to send a messenger,” she grumbled, pulling the dagger away and stashing it somewhere no proper lady should be stashing anything. “Don’t you have a city to run?”

“Honestly, it mostly manages on its own,” he admitted, rubbing at his throat. “And I didn’t want you seen near the palace.”

Claude watched Leonie travel the vast expanses of class outrage, climb the steep mountain of personal offence, only to arrive at the peak of realisation that, really, she _was_ supposed to stay low. Being questioned by the duke’s guards wasn’t the best way to do that.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I was going to stay at the tavern. Care to join me?”

Claude was actually familiar with the establishment she chose, although he hadn’t been there in years. It changed little; dark, musty and full of loudly drunk people even at midday. It was, admittedly, perfect for a secret meeting. 

“What’s with the pauper get-up?,” she asked, slamming two mugs of ale on the table. “Surely, a lord can go wherever he wants?”

Claude rolled his eyes. “This lord had to pretend to be sick, and doesn’t have all day. Lorenz said you have something for me?”

“Do I,” Leonie grinned. She reached into her bosom once again, this time producing two unsealed scrolls. Instead of placing them on the table like a normal person, she reached over and smacked Claude on the forehead with them. “That’s from Hilda, by the way. She asked to tell you that if the snake isn’t dead by the Founding Day, she’ll do it herself. Who’s the snake?”

Claude winced. Of course, Hilda would say such a thing. She’d grown strangely protective of him since their post-battle stay at the Gloucester estate. Lord Goneril was starting to have ideas. “Nobody you need to concern yourself with.”

“Well, I’m staying in town for a bit, and I hear my rates are good,” she said lightly, watching him unfold the first scroll. Her gaze was piercing, but Claude elected to ignore it in favour of skimming over the messages.

The first one was-- worrying, but not revelatory. Lysithea was, in essence, giving him a courtesy notice as she decided to smuggle some of their old classmates into Ordelia territory. Claude hadn’t had much contact with either Caspar or Linhardt, and their fathers were high-positioned imperial commanders, but he trusted Lysithea not to be an idiot about it. Besides, not that he’d admit it out loud in present company, House Ordelia was one he could easily burn bridges with, were it necessary. 

The second one… now, the second one definitely put a damper on this cheerful meeting.

“This shouldn’t be in writing.”

“You wouldn’t believe me, otherwise.”

“How did you--,” Claude pinched the bridge of his nose. “Linhardt?”

“Caspar, actually,” she grinned, although the humour did not reach her eyes. “He wanted to use it to pay their way into the Alliance. Good thing I found them first, eh?”

Claude stared at the parchment, ragged and stained in places, showing how far from Enbarr it had travelled. He had to do something about it. He had to--

To his surprise, Leonie grasped his hand and gently extracted the letter from it, before replacing it in the depths of her brassiere. “I’ll destroy it myself.”

“No, I need to--,” but Leonie only squeezed his hand, her expression so full of sympathy she looked like a stranger. Claude had to look away before it burned him.

“It’s too late. If I know it, then you know it too.”

“Why didn’t you go straight to Fhirdiad? You could’ve--,” he paused, hearing the inanity of his own questions, yet asking them anyway. “There was still time,” he finished lamely. 

She didn’t have to explain herself; it was too dangerous, too big. A conspiracy on all levels of the Kingdom’s shaky government wasn’t something a novice mercenary could take on on her lonesome. Hell, it wasn’t something a duke of Riegan could take on at this stage. Leonie squeezed his hand again, then let go to down her tankard. It wasn’t sitting easily with her, either.

An agent of the Empire will orchestrate the death of Grand Duke Rufus. And Dimitri will hang for it. On parchment, it seemed so clear-cut, so simple. 

And that was only the first of the two major events to tip Claude’s life into an even more dreadful state of chaos.

*

The official news of the assasination of the Grand Duke reached Derdriu only a fortnight later. Claude acted out the shock and horror as was appropriate, nodded at the assembled lords’ outraged commentary on the Mad Prince Dimitri and his just end, and for the first time since his arrival at the court two years ago, drank the wine as it came. 

Lord Riegan was, for once, upright, if not terribly mobile. The servants maneuvered him onto the throne and kept the smelling herbs on hand, but he must have felt well enough, for once the room dissipated into gossip and baseless accusations, he banged his fist on the table and roared:

“Enough!,” a bit of spatter landed on the table in front of him. Claude was too impressed at this display to truly notice. “It was a tragedy on all counts. We shall speak of it no more.”

Next, he did the strangest thing. He looked Claude straight in the eye with a clarity he’d not seen since the very first time they met, swished the dregs in his wine glass, then pointed a shaky finger just over his grandson’s shoulder.

“You!,” he demanded. “I like that bottle. Give it here.”

Sihon, who’d been standing in wait behind Claude for most of the evening, tensed like a bowstring. He couldn’t easily decline such a direct order, though, and soon enough, he was pouring the contents of a freshly opened bottle of wine into Lord Riegan’s cup. 

Claude felt a void open up in his stomach. He’d been expecting a poisoning attempt; he’d been taught to expect one his entire life. When chairing Roundtable meetings, he’d normally drink coloured water or nothing at all. Sihon would usually be taking notes or other such a clerical task, rather than pouring for him. Gods, he was such a fool--

When Duke Riegan fell unconscious later that night, nobody so much as suspected any foul play. He had been in ill health for years, and receiving news of the fall of House Blaiddyd seemed as good a reason as any to send him over that final edge. Still, he took days to die. Claude didn’t recognise the poison, but knew the hand that created it. Minimum suspicion, maximum suffering. It had Hubert painted all over it. 

Had Claude drank it, it would’ve looked like a sudden illness. Drawn out just enough to contact his mother, just enough to coax her into returning to Fódlan, and wipe out the entire House Riegan in a matter of weeks. Instead, an old man died in more pain than he deserved, and Claude had well enough of playing the long con.

That same night his grandfather drank the poison meant for him, Claude made a decision. 

Sihon, of course, did not pack up and leave. Perhaps he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to, or perhaps he was too proud. Maybe he still believed he could salvage his position. Either way, when he arrived at Claude’s bedchambers with the day’s figures, there was a glass of wine waiting for him at the drawing table.

“My lord?,” the clerk kept his expression carefully neutral. 

Claude wasn’t in the mood to continue the charade. 

“Sit,” he ordered. He took the barest amount of satisfaction from the fear in Sihon’s eyes. “Sit, and drink.”

*

The night before his formal ascension as Duke of Riegan, Claude dreamt of Dimitri. It was a pleasant dream, and turned to ash in his mouth as soon as he awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The daily update thing is unlikely to continue, to say the least. I'm back to work on Monday after two weeks of being stuck at home (: Still, I have a big of a backlog, so I'm hoping to keep some sort of a pace.


	3. 1182: no day copies yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight remains the same, but Claude's shoulders begin to tremble.
> 
> (Or: Lorenz is a pain, but at least he's there.)

_No day copies yesterday,_

_no two nights will teach what bliss is_

_in precisely the same way,_

_with precisely the same kisses._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

He was never not tired, these days. It wasn’t just staying ahead of the Alliance nobles, always sniffing for their own gain first; no, Claude had to manage that, _and_ the slithering machinations of Hubert. His whispers were present in nearly all of his interactions at the Roundtable, in baseless gossip, in sudden reignition of generations-old feuds, in lost merchant transports and prices raised just out of reach of those less fortunate. 

Lord Vestra was a menace haunting his waking hours, and seemingly set on making a permanent appearance in Claude’s dreams, too, scarce as they were. A letter from Lysithea arrived barely a moon ago, short and to the point as the girl herself. She didn’t give descriptions of the state Ferdinand was in, and only the briefest mention of his many injuries; no, Claude’s mind did the work all of his own. He had never been close with the Aegir heir, back in the academy, but he saw Teach patiently reach across the sea of buffoonery until something not unlike a kind, gentle person reached back. It made him think of Lorenz, of the fragile truce they’d struck since the war started. The thought of any of his friends targeted by Hubert left a sick, sinking feeling in Claude’s stomach.

How dearly he wished for his parents’ advice, now that Fódlan’s Throat was all but closed to him. Letters were too risky, though, and Balthus hardly reliable enough to carry them. Claude knew he was sweet on Hilda, and would do a lot to gain her favour, but his loyalty was first and foremost to Holst. He wouldn’t lie to his oldest friend just to slip Claude’s letter across the Locket. No, Claude had to rely on half-remembered mornings spent hunting with his father, and his meandering war metaphors. On the harsh truths delivered by his mother in rage, when she thought he couldn’t hear. 

_Victory is only as sweet as the price you paid for it._

By the time he made it through his evening correspondence --reports from Faerghus, mostly, some complaints, one update from Caspar and one from Leonie-- his candle had burnt down nearly to the end of its wick. He’d already sent all of his aides to bed, not ready to trust any of them with his letters. He was fairly sure the timid Edmund girl was forwarding on everything she saw to one of the Alliance lords, anyway. 

Claude cast a tired glance around his chambers. They were a mess of books and papers, broken quills and spilled ink. The only piece of furniture not entirely covered in his work was the bed, which he couldn’t quite recollect using that week. Suddenly, Claude felt a sharp pang of loneliness gnawing at his heart. At least with Sihon, he had--

He pinched the bridge of his nose. There was Hubert again, poisoning his own thoughts against him. He didn’t need such distractions, he needed...

There was a knock on his door. 

Claude watched from his desk, dumbstruck, as Lorenz let himself in, a tray expertly balanced in his hands. The man surveyed the chamber for an empty surface and found none, a faint look of irritation on his face. 

“Lorenz,” Claude cleared his throat. “It’s rather late--”

“And yet, you’re not asleep,” Lorenz cut in, voice sharp. He took a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to soften his tone. “I apologise for barging in at this hour. I found myself in need of a… conversation.”

The silence stretched thin, uncomfortable, until Claude took the hint and scrambled to clear some space in front of him. Looking somewhat mollified, Lorenz set the tray on the desk. It bore a steaming pot and two cups, the whole set adorned in a delicate rose pattern. 

“It is not my best brew, I’m afraid,” Lorenz said, pouring the pungent, greenish liquid. He reignited what was left of the candle, too, the magical light steady and bright in the dark room. “Camomile. It’s known to help with sleep troubles.”

The name struck a chord deep in Claude’s chest. He’d had camomile tea before. 

Lorenz sighed, perhaps at his expression, perhaps at his own worries. With Count Gloucester busy attending to his southern borders, he’d been staying at Derdriu with increased frequency, sitting in on the Roundtables and being as much of a pain as at his worst at the academy. Still, his objections and nitpicking were often preferable to those of other lords; at least with Lorenz, Claude knew he had the fate of the Alliance in mind, rather than his own coffers. 

“We ended up disagreeing, at the last meeting,” Lorenz said, the tea untouched between them.

“I don’t really want to--”

“It’s important.” Lorenz raised a hand in a somewhat placating gesture. It was unusually diplomatic of him. “I need to apologise.”

Claude gaped. He took a sip of his tea, just to busy his hands with something. Lorenz took it as a permission to speak. 

“As the representative of House Gloucester, it was entirely in my purview to question your commitment to continuing the supply of the western territories,” he started, slowly and thoughtfully, as if he was reading from a pre-prepared paper. “I still believe it a foolish endeavour that will only diminish our own stocks in the days to come.”

Claude had been hearing this argument for moons, now, and had to force himself to stay quiet, to let Lorenz say his part. Without the trade, House Galatea would surely fall, cutting off his access to the Fraldarius territory. If only he could _make_ the lords see the bigger picture--

“But, in concern for the future of my own lands, I have forgotten to care for my friends.”

Claude’s eyes snapped up, but Lorenz was gazing off to the side, a faint colour raising on his cheeks.

“You and Sylvain detested each other,” Claude reminded him, his voice harsher than intended. “And I recall the one occasion you and Ingrid dined together--”

“Yes, yes,” Lorenz cut him off impatiently, waving his hand like he was dismissing a servant. “There is no love lost between me and our Kingdom classmates, obviously. I didn’t mean _them_.”

“Then--,” but Claude’s brain finally caught up to his mouth, and he shut it. Oh, no wonder Lorenz was blushing. Admitting that he didn’t think the entire Riegan clan was a bunch of useless meddlers? That, goddess forbid, he might have some fondness for the strange foundling who now ruled Liecester against everybody’s better judgement? 

Surely, this was a trap. Still, if Lorenz was willing to play this game, who was Claude to refuse him?

*

“There are reports,” Lorenz told him, slowly, cradling the delicate teacup in both hands. “From the west.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Claude added a measure from his flask to his own cup, ignoring the furrowed brow of his companion. “How far west are we talking, Albinea?”

Lorenz rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I thought you’d have heard, maybe from the Galateas? The last sighting was just at their border.”

“Sighting?”

Lorenz’s evening tea visits have become something of a regular event, now that the winter has eased off and he’d more or less taken permanent residence in Derdriu. He seemed to enjoy forcing Claude to rest, even if only for a moment, and Claude couldn’t quite decide what to think of it. Lorenz wasn’t getting anything out of this arrangement, other than some bad jokes and the occasional ill-tempered insult. Still, the tea was a nice cap for the day, and needling Lorenz was hardly the worst entertainment Claude had ever suffered.

“There is a strange new mercenary band travelling the Kingdom,” Lorenz said, sagging into his seat. There was now, at his insistence, another, much more comfortable armchair at Claude’s desk. “They seem to target the imperial soldiers and messengers. The merchant I spoke to claimed they were all ghosts, appearing and disappearing at will.”

Claude paused. He could laugh it off --was tempted to, really-- as a story Mercedes would tell Lysithea to get her to go to bed early. Then again…

“You think it’s Teach?”

Lorenz looked somewhat taken aback. “I--,” he cleared his throat. “I have to admit that wasn’t my first guess, no.”

Claude was puzzled for a moment. Who else? A ghost, targeting the Empire? It seemed right up Byleth’s alley. Jeralt’s old mercenary band enjoyed scaring the curious students with tall tales about their professor, and Claude heard more than once the awesome, or awful, depending on point of view, stories of the Ashen Demon. So quiet you couldn’t hear him until his sword was already piercing your gut.

But Lorenz didn’t mean Teach. And judging by his expression, he wished he’d never brought the subject up. All of his former classmates took Claude’s trust in the Professor’s survival as just another facet of his overall strange personality, and tried to avoid it lest it become a point of contention. Lorenz knew Claude kept tabs on Felix and Sylvain, and that Yuri was more of an equal opportunity murderer than a rebel fighter. Which left…

“How come me believing Teach is alive is so weird,” Claude said, finally, his stomach tight, “but the minute something strange happens in Faerghus, everyone cries return of the king?”

“It’s just a rumour,” Lorenz held his cup up to his chin defensively. “I just thought you might find it interesting.”

“And why would I, pray tell?”

Lorenz, never one to back down from a challenge, set his tea down decisively and stared Claude down from across the desk. 

“You might be hard to read, Riegan, but I’m not blind nor deaf,” he hissed. “We only won the Battle of Eagle and Lion because _the lion_ wouldn’t kill _the deer_.”

The memory resurfaced in Claude’s mind uninvited, and clear as if it had happened merely hours ago. The tip of the lance stopping inches from his chest, Dimitri’s face turning red at his wink, then pale under Raphael’s charge that he’d failed to see coming. Claude's paid dearly for that wink in the following weeks.

He shook the haze off, aware that this momentary pause gave Lorenz much more ammunition than he was willing to give. But Lorenz didn’t seem interested in attacking him further.

“I apologise,” he said instead, massaging his temples. “I merely wanted… nevermind. Have I mentioned that I found you a tailor? You really must get some new shirts, the ink stains are entirely unbecoming.”

Claude let it go. It wasn’t a conversation he ever wanted to have with Lorenz, or with anyone else for that matter. And if his dreams that night were more… animated than usual, well. Nobody had to know.


	4. 1183: your name by accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude receives some bad news, and react appropriately.
> 
> (Or: Claude receives some bad news, and does not.)
> 
> Please see end notes for potential warnings.

_One day, perhaps some idle tongue_

_mentions your name by accident:_

_I feel as if a rose were flung_

_into the room, all hue and scent._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

Leonie did not whip a knife out this time, but her stare was nearly as deadly.

“What if Heinrich _won_ ,” she hissed. “I don’t have that much capital yet with these guys!”

“Oh, it all worked out,” Claude shrugged, although the heat around his ears was probably betraying his composure. “Besides, your Heinrich is a looker. Could’ve done worse.”

He had to step up his disguise game these days, and perhaps overdone the kohl for the occasion. Before he’d even approached Leonie, one of her hired men got in the way of things. Claude could deal with a drunk mercenary even on a bad day, but he hadn’t been, _ah_ , manhandled, in quite some time. It caught him off guard. 

“Don’t joke about that,” Leonie smacked him on the arm, hard. “Keeping those pigs in check is hard enough without your theatrics.”

Claude winced. “Replace a word here or there, and you’d sound like Lorenz.”

“Oh, would I?,” she smirked at him. “I hear he started dressing you, too.”

“Har, har,” he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I have succumbed to the noble ideals. Eat me. Now, to business.”

She looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow, loose clothes, make up and all, clearly not in doubt about Claude succumbing to things. 

“Apparently, it won’t be me doing the eating,” she said slowly. “No hard proof, this time, just hearsay, but the source is solid.”

“How solid?”

Leonie made a vague gesture with her hand. It did not inspire a great deal of confidence, alas, Claude had learned to make do. Leonie’s hunches were rarely wrong.

“The girl had no reason to lie to me,” she said, after some thought. “But Claude… You’re not going to like it.”

*

Claude did not like it.

He didn’t even have it in him to feel betrayed; after all, he’d suspected Gloucester would fall to the Empire first. He didn’t want to believe it would fall _consensually_ , but it wasn’t exactly a world-shattering surprise. Still, where normally an exhausted weariness had taken a permanent residence in his chest, now there was a steadily burning flame of… not anger. Embarrassment, maybe. He was supposed to be better than that. He was supposed to see them coming first.

That he had several drinks before leaving Leonie’s company did not help the clarity of his thoughts. He was just about sober enough to evade the guards and climb up to the open window of his chambers, roll through, stumble... 

...And be immediately blinded by a sudden burst of fire.

To his credit, Lorenz recognised Claude just before blasting him to smithereens, the light of the spell giving him a good enough view in the darkness of the room.

“It’s the middle of the night!,” he whispered. “What were you doing out-- out there?!”

Claude, who’d by now recovered his balance, if not all of his wits, considered the question.

“That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about,” he grinned. “And speaking of wondering -- what are you doing in my bedroom in the middle of the night?”

“The maid let me in, with the--,” Lorenz gave an awkward wave at the desk, his face burning nearly as bright as his spell. There it was, a teapot and two cups. “I must have…”

He must have fallen asleep waiting. Which would be a great deal more endearing, had Lorenz not been spying on him on his father’s orders this entire time. Claude inhaled sharply, forcing a barrage of words down, down, down. This wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t be making any more mistakes. No, it was time to put sentiment aside. To employ the tactics he grew up with.

“What are you wearing?,” Lorenz busied himself away from him, lighting the candle before extinguishing the spell. He was still flustered. “You look like a--”

Claude wasn’t about to let him regain his composure. 

“Like a whore?,” he asked as brightly as he could. “Thank you, that was the goal.”

The kohl was smeared, and he tore his sleeve jumping over the fence. Lorenz turned to him, scandalised, but before he could deny anything, Claude stepped right into his face. He could smell the rose perfume, which did nothing to help him think clearly. Now he was _angry_ , and if he couldn’t take it out on Count Gloucester, he sure could take it out on his son.

“Claude,” Lorenz cleared his throat. He tried to back away, but Claude had him trapped at the desk. “Are you-- you’re drunk.”

“And you’re _here_ ,” Claude said. It made sense in his head --you’re here, and I’m going to make your entire family pay, five generations forward if required-- but didn’t sound right out loud. His voice hitched, either due to the hard spirits Leonie had poured into him, or because of the suffocating frustration at all things Gloucester. Suddenly, he was tired again, closing his fists on Lorenz’s shirt instead of his throat. 

Lorenz grasped his wrists, gently, before Claude could do too much damage to his precious silks. “You should go to bed,” he said quietly. 

“Oh,” Claude laughed. It sounded broken, even to him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Claude didn’t think he could ever sleep again, not without waking up to a dagger in the night, metaphorical or otherwise. There was no time to rest, not if he ever wanted to catch up to Hubert. But then he looked up, to tell Lorenz exactly where to stick his good advice, only to be greeted by dissonance once more. 

Lorenz looked…

“You would,” Claude whispered, eyes wide. 

“You’re drunk,” Lorenz repeated, his long fingers tightening on Claude’s arms. Still, he held on, he kept staring at Claude like a hungry fox at a rabbit. Afraid that one wrong move would alert its prey.

Maybe Claude couldn’t kill him. Maybe he didn’t have to. 

Lorenz was holding his breath as he leaned in, tense as a bowstring. He was so bloody tall, Claude had to stand on his tip-toes to kiss him, the flowery scent nearly overwhelming. Gods, Claude hasn’t been this close to anyone since Sihon. His head was spinning already, and Lorenz was still stiff as a board. Did he miscalculate? Did he--?

But then he was _actually_ being spun, pressed into the desk. Lorenz kissed him so deeply and so desperately, for a moment, Claude could pretend that this was real. That he could have…

No. One night was more than enough damage.

Lorenz wasn’t particularly experienced, but he certainly made up for it in enthusiasm. He was seemingly able to go without air, moving between Claude’s lips and neck, hands roaming across his body quite shamelessly for such a prim and proper noble. They didn’t break apart until the clatter of the rose-embossed teapot falling to the floor made Lorenz jump. He looked around wildly, breathing hard, then returned his attention to Claude -- who’d at this point lost his shirt and, somehow, one of his boots. 

“Goddess,” he murmured, stroking Claude’s face with a trembling hand. “You’re so--,” he bit his lip. His other hand smoothed down his side, stopping at the waistband of his trousers. “Can I--”

“Bed,” Claude remembered, suddenly feeling a pocket book digging into his shoulder blade. “You wanted me in bed, didn’t you?”

But Lorenz wasn’t done with questions. “Are you sure?,” he asked, eyes serious, the flush still high on his cheekbones. “You’ve been drinking, I don’t want to--”

Claude could be patient, when he wanted to be. He didn’t feel particularly patient right at that moment. He forced himself to sit up and kissed Lorenz silent, pulling at the laces to his ridiculously fashionable breeches. He kicked off his other boot and trousers while pushing Lorenz backwards, towards the bed, and it was only by some small miracle that they didn’t end up on the floor instead. There was a brief delay when Lorenz refused to have the buttons of his shirt torn off, and by the time he got himself undressed, Claude was feeling positively _im_ patient. There were remnants of a plan rattling around his brain, but the majority of it was occupied by the need to have Lorenz’s hands on him again. To be pressed into the mattress, held down and _devoured_ \--

Oh, no. No, this wasn’t that kind of a… a thing. This wasn’t--

Lorenz kissed him again, all gentle and sweet, like he wasn’t naked in bed with a political enemy. He touched Claude with something approaching reverence, straying lower and lower until he had both of them in hand, whispering praises like they were one of his spells. Claude ran out of breath to speak, only able to close his eyes and ride the feeling, to enjoy the moment and _not. Think._

His peak took him by surprise, building up behind the wall of _later later later_ until Claude was gasping into Lorenz’s hair. It was in the post-coital stupor that his hind-brain decided to slide down, to take Lorenz into his mouth until he was begging, chanting Claude’s name like one of the prayers he also didn’t mean. It was the exhaustion that had him rest his forehead on Lorenz’s chest, then leave it there.

Then fall asleep.

*

Claude hasn’t woken up with someone else in his bed --let alone wrapped in someone else’s arms-- in what seemed like a lifetime. The feeling was so alien, it nearly had him reach for the dagger secured under the bed frame, with only a quiet snore at his ear reminding him it wasn’t necessary.

Lorenz slept like the dead -- like a man who didn’t have a thousand and one loose ends to tie up before breakfast. Claude, who couldn’t afford such luxuries, managed to extract himself from his embrace without so much as a grumble. His bedroom felt strangely cold, the first rays of dawn coming through the still-open window. He’d thought himself used to Fódlan’s middling autumn weather, but the gooseflesh on his arms prove otherwise.

The water in the wash basin was freezing, the perfunctory ablutions wiping away the last remnants of warmth from his skin. He reached for a razor… and decided against shaving. He’d been so careful, these last few years, to try and fit the form of an Alliance noble. His wardrobe was full of Lorenz-approved suits. Apparently, he looked rather like his uncle when dressed up like that. Godfrey had been the court favourite, and so any comparisons were very much to Claude’s benefit. Or have they been? Suddenly, it didn’t seem as important. 

There was a thread of thought inside his head that he did not dare to pull. Instead, he dug out a chest from the bottom of his wardrobe, a small travelling affair he’d brought to Derdriu on his first visit. His father had insisted on equipping him in an attire _he_ considered worthy of a lord, and his mother quietly made the necessary alterations for the robes not to be too on the nose. Claude never dared to wear them before. 

He wasn’t done being careful. But he was done being afraid. By the time he left Lorenz in his bed that morning, the burning in his chest was completely cold.

*

“You are, of course, welcome to continue attending the Roundtable conferences,” Claude paused for the clerk to catch up on their notes. He could _feel_ the silent rage emanating from across the table, the subtle shifting of allegiances as other lords realised Gloucester didn’t come out on top this time. It was exhilarating, in a way. “However, I will insist that you limit your retinue to five men at most, and that a representative of House Riegan accompanies you at all times while within my territory.”

None of his previous speeches at the Roundtable garnered quite such a level of attention. Even Holst, usually first to interject with questions, sat back in his chair, eyebrows climbing higher with every point Claude made. 

He was rather satisfied with his work. He’d postponed the meeting by nearly a fortnight, having waited for the ravens to return with final reports. He all but ordered the house heads to sit in, with no representatives allowed to attend instead. Leonie had to be collected from the inn she was staying at, too. He had her repeat every word, every allegation, over and over again until he was sure Gloucester couldn’t wriggle his way out of his sentencing without admitting to treason. Her appearance at court was something of a gambit --after all, she was now known to be his informant-- but he had a feeling her travels were taking her out of Leicester anyway. The southern border was becoming too busy with soldiers, and after this, Claude would have the rest of the country in quite a stalemate. Not much to do for an ambitious mercenary.

“...And finally,” he put down his papers, locking eyes with Count Gloucester. The old man was boiling with rage, a familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows betraying his otherwise composed features. “I wanted to personally extend my deepest regret that it has come to this. We in the Alliance are proud of our independence, and coming under control of an invading nation must be doubly distressing for you. Dear Count, please rest assured that House Riegan will do everything in our power,” he didn’t look at Lorenz, attending to his father, face white and so carefully blank he seemed more like an animated corpse than a man, “to help you regain your freedom once more.”

You could hear a robin sing in the gardens outside. Claude would later learn from the oldest archivist in the palace that this was the only Roundtable in living memory to pass without argument. His opening statement had other lords scrambling for response, unable to react on such a short notice, and Count Gloucester could only eat his prepared talk of joining forces with the Empire. He knew he was lucky not to leave the conference room in shackles.Count Ordelia even requested an audience --in front of everyone, instead of just stopping him for a chat outside the door-- only to privately thank him for defending the Alliance against the Empire.

“I see that perhaps my daughter was right,” he said, while Claude did his best not to act on his surprise. “Perhaps, you are the leader we need in these times.”

All in all, it was a resounding success. So you could pardon him for being in high enough spirits to miss the warning his chamber guard tried to give. He hoped the man would be more insistent if what waited behind the door was an assassin.

There was no tea tray. Lorenz didn’t turn when Claude entered, either, his arms crossed at the small of his back, watching the gardens through the window. He didn’t seem armed, but Lorenz never needed a weapon to decimate an opponent.

“I was under the impression the Gloucester retinue was already on its way out of the capitol,” Claude said, hovering by the door like an idiot. When Lorenz didn’t respond beside a slight stiffening of his shoulders, he took a couple steps in. “Lorenz--”

“I suppose today one mystery was solved,” Lorenz snapped. “You were using me this entire time.”

“I didn’t start the charade, you did,” Claude said. This wasn’t going to be pretty. “Forgive me if I’m not feeling terribly sorry for you.”

If Claude were inclined to be completely honest --which he wasn’t-- he could say that he was, in fact, a little bit sorry. The memory of the night they spent together was… distracting, to say the least, and Claude didn’t trust himself not to give the game away, were he to continue as normal. Besides, what would the normal be? Pretending that nothing has happened, or that _something_ did? It was too much to ponder in the circumstances, so Claude took the coward’s way out and made himself unavailable instead.

Lorenz growled something under his breath. “I didn’t-- I wasn’t--,” he stammered, leaning on the window sill like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “I didn’t _know_. If only you told me--”

It was painful to watch him writhe like that. A small, secret part of Claude felt vindicated, a spark of satisfaction not dissimilar to orchestrating Sihon’s untimely departure. But Lorenz wasn’t Sihon; he wasn’t even his father, for all the boasting he’d done in the academy. Lorenz was just another young man unable to tell when to cut his losses. And Claude really, really shouldn’t have kissed him.

(Still. It was better than having killed him.)

“Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s best you get going.”

Finally, Lorenz turned to face him. He looked dreadful, eyes lined with lack of sleep and lower lip chewed out of colour. Claude expected… he wasn’t sure what he expected. Anger at the dismissal, maybe. Further explanations and insistences. Not this utter capitulation. Lorenz walked past him with his eyes to the floor, pausing only with his hand already on the doorknob.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, barely audible. “I truly tried to help.”

Claude held his breath until he heard the door click shut behind him. He’d rather hoped to celebrate this evening. Suddenly, he didn’t much feel like it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're really strict about your consent, the middle bit is probably best skipped. There's some serious miscommunication going on, plus a level of intoxication.


	5. 1184: can't help looking at the clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude learns the true meaning of friendship.
> 
> (Or: Friends get your ass out of the fire. It's a good idea to keep them.)

_The next day, though you're here with me,_

_I can't help looking at the clock:_

_A rose? A rose? What could that be?_

_Is it a flower or a rock?_

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

“I suppose I should congratulate you,” Judith said, “Your plan worked well enough.”

Claude had long ago outgrown the need to seek her approval, but still, the edge of uncertainty in her voice stung. All he wanted was for at least one person to say: yes, you made difficult decisions that paid off. Good job. Was it really too much to ask for?

He didn’t say any of it, of course. They were on the south wing balcony, watching in silence the silhouette of the Imperial envoy disappearing behind the gates of the city, and ride off into the plains. Or, more precisely, the silhouette of a spy made up to look like the Imperial envoy. He wouldn’t pass muster when in direct contact with the envoy’s original superiors, but until then, he’d roam the Empire free. Claude abhorred the idea of sending a man essentially to his death, but Marius was an old hand. Served his grandfather. An entire branch of his family was put to work in the mines in the Hrym territory as punishment for dissent, and if he were to die ensuring nothing like this happened again, he’d be dying fulfilled. 

Claude’s objections were perfunctory at best, anyway. Another thing to beat himself up about when all of this was over. Breaking up the current government in Hrym was imperative to ensuring the safety of Ordelia’s borders, and he couldn’t afford to hold back now.

He could feel Judith’s searching gaze on the side of his face. 

“Something on your mind, madam?”

“I’m waiting for you to snap,” she said, matter of fact. “I never pegged you for a snapping type. Shows what I know, I guess.”

“I’m afraid you missed the snapping. I’m... post-snapped. This is as good as it’s going to get.”

She mulled it over for a minute. The envoy was now just a mote of dust in the distance. 

“You mean the time you exposed Gloucester,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “My dear boy, you call _that_ snapping? That was you putting your big boy pants on.”

You don’t know half of it, Claude thought, and kept to himself. There was a reason he now had people he trusted in this godsdamn city. Getting rid of the Gloucesters was only the beginning. He’d spent months methodically rooting out anyone he wasn’t fully certain of. The palace chamberlain nearly had a nervous breakdown at the amount of staff Claude dismissed. There were still gaps in coverage, nearly a year later.

“You forget that I knew your mother,” Judith said, with a note of nostalgia creeping in. Claude braced himself. “And your uncle, too. You take after them more than you realise.”

“So you keep telling me,” he shrugged. “But my mother ran away, and my uncle was murdered. Forgive me if I don’t plan on following in their footsteps.”

“He wasn’t--,” but she waved it off. She had yet to convince him, and clearly decided now wouldn’t be the time she succeeded. “What I’m _trying_ to convey here, is that you think you’re completely alone in all this. And it’s messing with your head.”

“Judith…”

“I’m serious, kid. I’ve seen it happen to men better than you.” She crossed her arms. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, and somehow, that was worse than her scrutiny. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

Claude scoffed. “If you want it done right…”

Judith shook her head, and didn’t say anything else.

*

As much as Claude hated to admit it, the Hero of Daphnel ended up having a point. He resisted the idea for many moons, and would probably continue to do so if not for an entirely coincidental crossing of paths. 

The fever took him by surprise. He’d felt fatigued and irritable for some days, but chalked it up to the changing seasons and returning frost of the Wyvern Moon. He fell behind on correspondence thanks to the Founding Day celebrations, and sometimes worked through the night to catch up; he barely realised he’d been losing time. Truthfully, it wasn’t until he’d had a rather engaging conversation with Dimitri that it even occurred to him that he might be ill. Well, it hadn’t occurred to him even then. In its addled state, his brain decided that his hallucinations were caused by poison. Apparently, his maid became alarmed when he locked himself in his rooms and refused meals. Claude had very little memory of the following days. He woke up to the soft glow of healing magic, and the worst headache he’d ever experienced.

As it happened, Margrave Edmund --who had only just returned to his territory after said Founding Day celebrations and did not fancy another trip to Derdriu quite yet-- sent Marianne with a request for Claude’s signatures on his copy of the new luxury tax bill. Apparently, some of the merchants up north did their level best to wriggle their way out of payments, so the margrave wanted everything buttoned up. On her own, she’d have probably waited at his door until he began decomposing, but in another fortunate coincidence, Edmund had recently hired Raphael as her personal bodyguard. Raphael didn’t have any qualms about breaking into Claude’s chambers ‘just to see if he’s alright’.

Goddess save Claude from his friends. Enemies, he could take on himself.

Marianne was a fantastic physician even back at the academy, and has since fortified her magical ability with mundane knowledge. She proved much more difficult to dissuade once Claude was established as her patient, too. It didn’t help that Raphael seemed fluent in Marianne these days, enforcing her will whenever words failed her. Still, the sickness took a long time to clear up.

Claude was a proper brat thorough the entire endeavour, even once the fever broke. The hallucinations left him unsettled, which translated into near-complete refusal to cooperate. He was prickly, rude and purposefully obnoxious, all to just… be left _alone_ for five minutes. He kept thinking he needed to mull things through, to organise his mind before facing people again, but every time he achieved the objective --that is, insulted Marianne into leaving to collect herself-- it was like his soul was leaving the room too. With every day, and with each faculty slowly returning to him, he felt more and more like an absolute waste of a human being. 

It took him nearly dying, alone in a palace full of people, to realise just how lonely he had been. 

“Ain’t you eating that?”

Raphael looked as friendly as always, but Claude had by now realised it was a trick question.

“I am, I am,” he sighed, digging his spoon into the porridge. “No need to use force.”

Raphael didn’t take his word for it, silently chewing through his own breakfast as he watched Claude push his food around until at least some of it made its way into his stomach. While his head was mostly intact, his appetite hasn’t quite returned yet.

“So I was thinking,” Raphael began, and whether he truly missed Claude’s unkind grumble on the matter or simply chose to ignore it would remain a mystery, “that you weren’t doing so good even before you got sick, eh?”

“Whatever do you mean?,” Claude asked dismissively. In a way, he’d been expecting this conversation; gods, Marianne attempted to start it enough times already. That Raphael decided to take the matter into his own gigantic hands was merely proof that they’ve been talking about it behind his back.

“You’re acting like my lil’ sis did when she broke something and didn’t want to tell our grandpa.”

“I’m hardly a young lady, Raphael,” Claude sighed. He pushed his porridge away. Raphael pushed it back in front of him. “Look, I’m not hungry.”

“You look like a twig,” Raphael shrugged. “I bet you can’t even draw a bow anymore, all you do is push pencils and hide in the corners.”

“Well, all _you_ do is badger me.”

It wasn’t his proudest moment, but the comment on his archery skills hit a little too close for comfort. It was true; he’d neglected to keep up with his training to make more time for… he wasn’t even sure what for, specifically. At some point, his schedule filled up, and he had to drop something, and it’s not like he was going out fighting terribly often these days...

“That’s not true,” Raphael protested, mouth full of egg. “Marianne and I train every afternoon, when you’re in your boring meetings.”

And if that evening, after his new babysitters retired for the day, Claude took his bow off the wall and found his technique somewhat lacking… Godsdamn them.

*

“You seem to be doing better.”

Claude gave his wyvern a last pat before turning to Marianne. Taking brief flight excursions above Derdriu became one of many little routines Raphael and Marianne had roped him into, perhaps in self-defence against his moodiness. It turned out he was much more susceptible to delegating his work when he couldn’t say no to his friends’ worried faces.

“All thanks to you, of course,” he said with his most charming smile, but weeks in his company had made Marianne disaffected to his bewitchery. She gave him a Look. “What else do you want me to say? I was miserable, and you fixed me. I’m grateful you haven’t run off at first opportunity.”

“I’m grateful you let us help,” she said, the slight blush already colouring her cheeks. “But-- there’s something I must ask you. I would appreciate it if you were honest in your answer.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” Omit, forget or exaggerate, though… “Ask away.”

She took her time collecting the words, and Claude waited patiently. He’d resolved to stop taking his frustrations out on his friends, whether they deserved them or not. Marianne never did. 

“Do the nightmares still trouble you?”

Claude missed the hook, and the saddle he was putting away fell to the ground with a thud. The wyvern hissed in her enclosure.

“No,” he lied, and immediately felt like an ass. “I mean… not often. Sometimes. Why?”

“Claude, you said you won’t--”

“I know!,” he barked, making Marianne jump. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I raised my voice. Let’s… let’s talk somewhere else, shall we?”

He wasn’t sure why such a simple question had him so rattled --oh, and that was a lie too, he knew exactly why. Having Marianne witness his hallucinations was bad enough; he didn’t know how much she put together, how much of the gossip she’d picked up back at the academy, what did he say out loud and what was entirely imagined. He hated the uncertainty, but couldn’t bring himself to ask. And then there were the nightmares, which she must have been witness to on the nights she watched over him, in the beginning. Did he talk in his sleep? Why else would she be concerned?

Then, a delicate hand grasped his shoulder, and he suddenly became aware of how shaky his knees felt. 

“What’s going on with me?,” he asked, and gods, he sounded pathetic. 

“You’re healing,” Marianne said gently. “But you try to keep it all in. Some boils need lancing.”

He winced at the mental image. She giggled. 

“It’s… it’s not all mine to talk about,” he admitted, after a long while. “I think you know why.”

Marianne nodded thoughtfully. “If it helps… Dimitri was my friend, too. When I heard about what happened… It must have been difficult for you.”

She took him by the arm in an unusually bold move, and marched him out of the roost and into the gardens. They were a fairly private background for a conversation, with the many tall hedges and tastefully placed fountains, but Claude felt rather exposed anyway. Still, moving kept his mind off of how his body kept betraying him. He wondered if Marianne knew that.

“We didn’t exactly part as friends,” he said, glancing around to make sure nobody else was taking a stroll in the vicinity. “After the whole business with the Fire Emperor.”

Marianne inclined her head to the side, considering. “It changed him quite a bit, didn’t it.”

“Quite,” he agreed. “He-- he refused to see me, before the battle.”

“Claude…”

“It was probably for the best,” he shrugged. “Would’ve taken my head off instead, the way it was going.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

Claude remembered all too well, being thrown into the wall in the corridor, the door shutting in his face. The bruises from that encounter blended with the wounds from the battle the very next day, which at the time seemed like a blessing in disguise. No, he definitely believed that pushing Dimitri then would’ve been a suicide. And yet, he still felt like the risk might have been worth it. Like maybe if he banged on that godsdamn door a little while longer, pleaded a little louder, maybe he’d have gotten through the prince’s thick skull and avoided so, so much mess. 

But he had a monastery to defend, so he backed down. And now it was too late.

“It doesn’t really matter what I believe, does it?”

“It does,” she stopped abruptly, clutching his hands in hers, her eyes serious. “Claude, it’s friends like you, like Raphael, that helped me believe my curse doesn’t define me. Belief is what gives us hope to go on.”

She squeezed his fingers, before realising their position and quickly dropping them, flustered. Claude couldn’t help but smile.

“I believe,” he said, “that I’m very lucky to have you as my friend.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I fit this in two more chapters? Who knows!! Not me D:
> 
> (Or: nopety nope nope, but I'll be out of the poem and what then)


	6. 1185: in its nature not to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Founding Day has to be celebrated, whether Claude feels like it or not.
> 
> (Or: Claude throws a party, and for once doesn't enjoy a minute of it.)

_Why do we treat the fleeting day_

_with so much needless fear and sorrow?_

_It's in its nature not to stay:_

_Today is always gone tomorrow._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

Claude both was and really _wasn’t_ looking forward to the Founding Day celebrations.

As the Verdant Rain Moon drew to a close, Derdriu began filling with people. The annual ball was square at the top of the societal to-do list, and as the Duke, Claude was expected to entertain. He wasn’t particularly worried about that part; despite his ever-growing paranoia, he still found it easy to talk circles around anyone he came across. He wasn’t a half-bad dancer either, with Fódlan steps so much more structured than what he was used to back home. No, what worried Claude was the guest list.

Obviously, the entire noble families descended on the capitol, bringing their eligible offspring. Most of them had townhouses in Derdriu, but some traditionally stayed at the palace, making the place near-on impossible to work in. He had to have Raphael keep a list at the door, just to stop every minor baron from trying to make their particular case in an informal setting. That obviously not being enough trouble, Claude made it worse for himself with --at the time-- a fantastic plan to invite some of their not-technically-allied neighbours. It was mostly a ploy to mix Nader in without anyone finding it too suspect, but as most of his schemes tended to do, it grew out of control almost immediately. And now he had an Imperial representative attending his godsdamn ball.

“You’ll give yourself an ulcer,” Hilda gave him a pointed look. Her handiwork was beginning to take shape in her hands, a püskül garland made by a Fódlan noblewoman. She didn’t care to know more about the task he’d asked her to complete, but Claude hoped she’d appreciate the cultural significance, if she did. “Relax! It’s just Dorothea. She’ll have too many suitors around to talk to you, anyway.”

“No, Hilda,” he said, unable to keep the edge of anxiety out of his voice. “It’s not _just_ Dorothea. This is the empress’ most trusted advisor, in the same ballroom as representatives of _two_ rebel Kingdom factions, _and_ the princess of Brigid, _and_ Seteth,” he fell into the loveseat next to her, covering his eyes with his arm as dramatically as his energy level allowed. Hilda was suitably unimpressed. “Besides, it means Ferdinand can’t come. Lysithea is going to cut my balls off.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Hilda snorted. “Ferdie is a delight to be around.”

“Apparently not cooped up in secret for months at a time. She wrote to me, Hilda,” he pressed a hand to his heart. “I’m a dead man already.”

The former Black Eagles were proving an increasing political concern that Claude barely had time to deal with, on top of everything else. Ferdinand was wanted for treason, and took it about as well as one could expect. Linhardt, ignoring Claude’s advice entirely, gave in to his father’s badgering and returned home in exchange for lifting the treason charges off Caspar. Caspar, who --again-- took it about as well as could be expected, joined Leonie in murdering their way through Imperial battalions somewhere out in the Kingdom. Sometimes they got paid. Claude stopped reading their reports fairly quickly; he wasn’t privy to whatever relationship Linhardt and Caspar had, but clearly the distance was not helping Bergliez with his anger management issues. Claude could only hope he’d come across Hubert one of those days.

“Well, we always knew Lysithea is one day going to combust and take us all with her,” Hilda said cheerfully, but she only kept up the facade for a moment longer. She put down her sewing with a heavy sigh. “It will be incredibly awkward, won’t it.”

“I was more worried about the assassination potential, but sure,” Claude shrugged. “Awkward has a nice ring to it.”

Having Hilda around was a balm on his soul. He felt like a lot of his blunders could have been avoided entirely, had she been there to point out when he was being a fool. Marianne was trying, of course, but she was too polite to call him out on obvious flights of fancy. At some point, Judith snapped at her to ‘do her job as an advisor’, and she was too frightened to speak up for a whole moon. 

“You’re getting that sappy look on your face again.”

“I missed you, Hil.”

She laughed. “Don’t let my brother hear you say that!”

“Why not? Holst loves me,” he grinned. It wasn’t _entirely_ untrue. After the Gloucester affair, Duke Goneril decided that Claude was worth cooperating with. He just didn’t find him an appropriate brother-in-law material, an opinion he announced often and loudly. “Speaking of, has he found you a nice young man to settle down with yet?”

“Please,” Hilda sniffed, “my brother knows that an uncertain political climate is a bad time to choose a spouse.”

“You told him to stuff it.”

“I would never!,” she giggled. “Besides, shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Why, is your brother trying to find me a nice young--”

“Don’t be an ass,” she smacked him on the shoulder. “I mean it. Surely, securing a match should be a priority? You’re the end of the Riegan line, after all.”

Claude had hoped this wouldn’t come up. Hilda wasn’t the first person to bring up the concept of marriage --he was fairly sure Margrave Edmund expected him to propose to Marianne, having kept her in the capitol for nearly a year-- but so far they were merely suggestions. He wasn’t keen on those becoming actual inquiries.

“I’m too young to be tied down,” he joked. 

“Yeah, but you must have thought about it?,” she resumed her sewing, ignoring his groan. “Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t had any weddings yet. I know Edmund’s been looking around, and I thought surely Lorenz would’ve married by now.”

Claude’s stomach flipped. He did his best to ignore it. 

“Well, we _are_ at war,” he reminded Hilda. 

“Not officially.”

“Still. Heir-making will have to wait until it’s over.”

She gave him a mischievous smile. “And with your heir-making predilections, it might take you much longer than that.”

“Careful,” he warned. “Or I’ll start charming Holst into letting _us_ get married, and then, where would you be?”

Hilda made a suitably horrified face at the prospect, before bursting out laughing. Claude wished he could stay in the room with her for the rest of the afternoon, but soon enough, someone knocked at the door, demanding his attention. That, or Holst realised he was in his little sister’s bedroom without a chaperone, and came to murder him on the spot.

Thankfully, the person waiting at the door wasn’t Holst; it wasn’t one of Claude’s usual runners either. Indeed, the boy was perhaps a little too dark in complexion to be local at all. Was it time…?

“Your faithful servant Nardel requests your audience, my lord,” the boy said. It was clearly so well rehearsed he couldn’t wait to get it over with. “And some wine, if it pleases you.”

Of course. The bastard.

Claude took his time. He wouldn’t admit it under threat of torture, but he was a bit anxious to see his old instructor again. He was years removed from the insufferable child he’d been before leaving Almyra, and yet, the desire to impress Nader didn’t lessen any. And so, he first finished nailing down the seating arrangements until he was sure no minor rebellions would erupt over perceived slights, paid a courtesy visit to each of the Roundtable lords and changed into a shirt he didn’t mind bleeding on, before finally setting off to greet Lady Riegan’s retinue.

That was the official story. His mother, according to the gossip, lived in isolation somewhere in the mountains, having conceived Claude out of wedlock, and so he decided to play it to his advantage. He couldn’t build too elaborate a story for Nader’s presence; the man wasn’t a _terrible_ liar, but he wouldn’t give a damn about subtlety if his life depended on it. 

The quarters allocated to Nader used to be Claude’ old chambers, from when he first moved to Derdriu. He didn’t vacate them in favour of his grandfather’s suite until shortly after his fever broke last year. The window access was a convenient feature, and he didn’t _need_ the space of the Duke’s opulent apartment. Now, though, they would serve Nader well. He could keep his men handy in the nearby servants’ wing, and probably use the window to cause some chaos, too. Claude learned from the best, after all.

The room seemed empty when he entered it. Claude paused, wine bottle loose in his grip, noting the familiar traveling cloak thrown carelessly onto the bed chest.

“Give it up,” he sighed, although he couldn’t quite stifle the amusement in his voice. His Almyran sounded different, now, ever so slightly modulated with years of Fódlanese. “If you give me a black eye before the ball, I know a certain young lady who’d have your balls for dinner.”

He knew three, in fact, and limited to that number only because of Marianne’s delicate disposition. She’d probably burn them instead.

Nader must have considered the threat and multiplied it by what he knew of Leicester ladies, because when he leaped from behind the desk, he merely put Claude in a headlock rather than advancing with a full-on tackle. 

“Think you can keep me waiting, princeling?!”

“I’ve got wine!,” Claude held out the bottle and nearly dropped it when Nader’s knuckles rubbed the top of his head mercilessly.

Regular wrestling with Raphael turned out to have its uses after all, and Claude managed to roll out of Nader’s grasp with only minimal damage to his scalp. If his instructor was impressed, he hid it by pretending to examine the bottle in his hand -- the same bottle Claude could’ve sworn he never let go of.

“Nice vintage,” Nader said, finally looking Claude in the eye. “It’s good to see you, Khalid.”

Claude’s throat was inconveniently tight. “Yeah,” he managed to choke out. “You too.”

*

Claude had planned for the final three days before the ball to be… difficult. His schedule was packed, and he had to take care that some of his esteemed guests arrived separately, as to avoid any friction before the main event. Seteth and Flayn appeared without too much circumstance, with only a modest guard and grey, travel-worn faces. Claude was rather surprised to find the young girl exactly that -- still very much a child. Even Lysithea had grown some over the years.

Petra’s arrival was much louder. It was a delight to see her, of course, and they shared a long embrace once she landed, but Claude dearly wished she’d told him in her letter that not only would she be travelling by wyvern, but her entire retinue would, too. And that they will land square in front of his palace gate, prompting guards to panic and people to flee. Petra had told him later that she wasn’t sure if the Empire would already be there, and wanted to make something of an entrance. Politically, this was promising information. Socially, Claude wanted to claw his eyes out.

Sylvain and Ingrid arrived alone and in the night, and were both so ecstatic at the prospect of a real bed, that Claude didn’t have the heart to stop them from immediately retiring. Even their horses were in a state. He’d known that he was taking them away from the frontlines of the rebellion, but seeing Sylvain’s banged-up armour and Ingrid’s hair chopped short brought it home in a very unpleasant manner.

He’d ensured that the imperial envoy didn’t arrive until the day of the ball; they would be stopped at the gates if they tried to enter the city early. He didn’t want whatever Hubert's planned within a mile of him until it was absolutely unavoidable. He would have a private lunch with Dorothea at some point, politely tell her where to stuff talk of negotiations, and then avoid her for the rest of his life.

“You’re doing well,” Nader told him, once they waved the envoy off. It was nearly time to start getting dressed.

Claude rubbed his eyes. They felt like sandpaper. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Nader’s big hand landed on his shoulder. It felt… grounding, even when he spoke Fódlanese with his thick, familiar accent. “The whole country is a snake pit, and you’ve managed to crawl on top. That’s quite an achievement in my book.”

“Thanks,” Claude managed to say, instead of collapsing into a heap on the floor and begging his instructor to just take him back home, away from this mess. “Now, I believe we have some frocks to don. Ready?”

Nader shuddered. “I knew I’d hate this job.”

*

Perhaps the biggest difference between Fódlan and Almyra was their attitude to dance. 

In Almyra, the point was to show off -- to be in the centre of attention, demonstrate one’s charm and agility. Dancing in pairs was either a way to assert dominance over one’s partner, or a display of affection. It was emotional, and intense, and much, much more fun than its Fódlanese counterpart. 

For one, Claude thought as he twirled the flushed Daphnel girl he was currently paired with, in Fódlan it seemed to be generally an opposite-sex affair, with intimate associations as soon as the strict rules of conduct were broken. Claude had danced with his mother in a more energetic manner than what was allowed at the Leicester courts. Left, left, right, forward, turn around and change partners. On the other hand, it was easy to enjoy the predictable flow of it, even engage in brief conversation. The Founding Day inauguration dance was traditionally an all-hands-on-deck occasion, the whole floor moving like clockwork until everybody had a chance to make a full circuit. There was some historical significance -- a show of unity and equality, of the leadership’s openness to its people -- and honestly, Claude could think of worse ways to waste ninety minutes. Also, it was quite amusing to watch Nader’s stiff shoulders above the crowd, desperately trying not to mess up the steps and maintain his Fódlanese to an acceptable standard. He was supposed to have lived here for a while, after all.

“You,” he heard on the next partner swap, looked down, and felt a sharp pain in his foot. Lysithea ground her heel in as long as the pause in the music allowed, before graciously taking his arm and allowing herself to be led. Claude stumbled on the first step. “You are a dead man, Riegan.”

“I knew you were just waiting for your parents to be out of earshot,” he grumbled. His foot pulsed in agony. “It’s still not my fault.”

“Everything is your fault,” Lysithea smirked at him. She was much taller than the last time he saw her, and only partially because of the heels. “My parents won’t shut up about you.”

“Oh?”

“They think you’re the next thing to the goddess,” her eyes narrowed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he grinned at her. “Everybody doing alright?”

“Define ‘alright’,” she said, easily passing under his arm as he spun her around. She couldn’t elaborate much; they had to assume that their every word was as good as on record. “Let’s just say our territory doesn’t have a bandit problem anymore.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

And then it was time to turn around again. Claude had a general idea of the subsequent pairings and who to expect next, but when he realised that in two turns, he’d be dancing with Dorothea, his stomach tightened involuntarily. He wasn’t even nervous; so far, Dorothea and her envoy were extremely polite guests, and didn’t try to evade the constant surveillance. Miss Arnault had always intimidated him, though. Claude went through his share of hardships in childhood, especially before becoming recognised as part of the royal family, but Dorothea’s youth tempered her into a steel blade. She was the only person at the academy who’d ever made him blush.

It didn’t help that she was stunning, sliding across the dance floor in a perfectly tailored crimson dress. Amongst the fairly conservative Leicester fashions, she looked like a mythical temptress. She’d probably left a queue of flustered dance partners in her wake. 

“Claude,” she greeted him warmly, taking his arm. “You look fantastic tonight.”

“Just tonight?,” he quipped. She stole his opening line. “I hope you’re enjoying Derdriu.”

“As much of it as I can see from my chambers, yes,” she giggled, although there was no sting to her words. Claude could hardly allow an imperial retinue to roam freely around his city. “I’m pleasantly surprised, to tell you the truth.”

“Did you expect me to put you in chains as soon as you arrived?”

“Don’t be a tease,” she winked at him. “But yes, along those lines. Hubie thought this was a suicide mission, after the mess you made of Hrym.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” she gave him a brilliant smile as she twirled around, her dress sparkling in candlelight. “Be thankful it’s Edie who’s in charge. Have you changed your mind about negotiations?”

Claude spent some sleepless night pondering that question, ever since an Imperial envoy became a possibility. Edelgard’s letter was rather touching, if succinct: accept her rule, and nothing has to change. End of bloodshed, unity against the common enemy. But Claude remembered another letter, too, the one Leonie delivered to him four years ago. 

“You know my answer already,” he said. Dorothea’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes had a hard glint to them now.

“A shame,” she sighed, curtsying as the music paused. “You must have truly loved him.”

Claude didn’t dignify the jab with a response, and the dance went on. He had approximately half a second of a breather afterwards, before Nader pulled him in for a word.

“You were right,” he said. “My boys got the man, he was trying to get into the chandelier. Want me to…?,” he made a vague gesture towards Dorothea, currently charming Gloucester at their shared table. Claude couldn’t help but notice that Lorenz was missing from the family retinue. 

“No,” he said slowly. He was fairly certain Miss Arnault wasn’t even aware of the assassins; he’d be surprised if Edelgard had known. “No point causing a scene now. Do get them packing at the end of the night, though. We’ve talked as much as we’re ever going to.”

“Understood.”

Nader disappeared into the crowd. Claude managed to find his way to the top table and scarf down some potatoes before the speeches began.

The Speech, traditionally a Riegan obligation to remind the people of their rightful leadership, has fractured somewhat over the years. Now, each of the Roundtable lords gave their own version, and clearly, Gloucester couldn’t wait a second longer than necessary to gloat of his territory’s achievements. Claude couldn’t even begrudge him his moment; Gloucester _has_ been doing extremely well this year. He had a sneaky suspicion that their improved harvest had to do with all the plans Lorenz had waxed on about years before, and, eh. Good for them. By the time it was Claude’s turn, Nader had returned, giving him a wink. All was well.

*

It was well past midnight, and Claude stopped bothering to count how many hands he’d shaken and how many pleasantries were exchanged. Judith told him to piss off when he offered another dance, but she was wine-flushed and looking Nader up and down in something akin to wonder. Marianne and Raphael were catching up with Flayn, and with Ignatz, who’d apparently tagged along with the Gloucesters as part-security, part-illustrator for the event. Hilda took to teaching Petra the steps to one of the more lively dances, and soon enough Sylvain joined in on the fun, the three making enough of a racket to gather the attention of the guests still on their feet.

When Seteth approached him, Claude reflexively offered a dance, and surprisingly got a laugh in return.

“You will forgive me if I decline,” Seteth said graciously. “I must thank you for the invitation. It will do Flayn good, to forget our troubles for a night.”

“No luck finding Rhea, then?”

“We still have the north to cover,” Seteth sighed heavily. If Claude felt tired all the time, this man should’ve by all rights dropped dead from exhaustion some years ago. “I was hoping to speak to Ingrid and Sylvain about the current situation.”

Claude didn’t need another hint. “I wouldn’t count on Sylvain, but I think I saw Ingrid sneaking off to the balcony. Come on.”

It wasn’t difficult to tell that Ingrid had been crying, but she held herself well enough given the circumstances, and Claude stepped away to give her and Seteth privacy. He’d briefly considered alerting Sylvain, but he looked intoxicated enough to only cause more trouble, and openly flirting with Hilda besides. Claude could see Holst at the Goneril table, frowning at the scene, and decided not to get involved.

It took Seteth less than ten minutes to extract whatever information he’d needed, and he left shortly after, stopping only to give Claude his farewells and collect Flayn on the way. Apparently, they would not see each other again. When Ingrid failed to come out after another ten minutes, Claude figured it was time to grow a pair.

“Is he still as scary when he can’t tell you what to do?”

Ingrid whipped around, her eyes lined red but otherwise composed. She gave a resigned groan at the sight of Claude, which he chose to interpret as fond. 

“Not you,” she complained. “I’m not ready for you.”

…Whatever that meant. Claude leaned on the railing next to her, enjoying the rare autumn breeze. He could see Nader’s boys signalling each other across the gardens, and perhaps it spoke more than it should about his state of mind, but the visual confirmation of their presence comforted him a little.

“I just came to say hello,” he said. “We don’t have to do politics.”

Ingrid's fingers tightened on the railing. She looked about as uncomfortable in her simple but elegant, sky-blue gown, as Claude felt in his own high-collared ensemble. He was sure she was still wearing her riding shoes under all the tulle. He kept quiet, giving her space to gather herself.

“It’s not… it’s not politics,” she said, finally, and it came like a confession. “It’s Felix.”

“Oh?”

“He disappeared just as we were getting ready to leave. Duke Fraldarius says he joined up with a marauding mercenary band,” she spat out, as if the mere idea was an insult. “Sylvain refuses to talk about it, but I know that as soon as we’re back, he’s going to ride off to look for him.”

She didn’t burst into tears again, but that was somehow worse, the despair coming off of her in silent waves, threatening to take Claude with it. 

“I have--,” he began. He had carefully placed spies he couldn’t spare. “I have ways to find things out. If you want me to.”

“I don’t know that I do,” she smiled at him. It clearly took some effort. “I think-- I _suspect_ I know where he’s gone to. I suppose I just… thought better of him.”

_There is a strange new mercenary band travelling the Kingdom…_

Claude swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t like where his mind would take him sometimes. Still, wasn’t it worth asking the question? Wasn’t he always so confident in his hunches?

“The mercenaries,” he started slowly, careful in his phrasing. “The rumoured Ghost King’s band?”

Ingrid didn’t move, and seemingly didn’t breathe, either, for a good long while. When she finally exhaled, she dropped her elbows onto the railing in an entirely un-ladylike manner, rubbing at her temples and ruining somebody’s careful styling work.

“We don’t know,” she admitted. “It can’t be him, obviously, but we can’t find out for sure, and we can’t spare the resources to stop them either. For all we know, Felix left to just kill the leader and put a stop to this insanity,” she looked at Claude again, unbearable sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Claude. I wish I had better news than this.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Claude said, then pulled her, squeaking, back into the ballroom. “Come on, you do owe me a dance.”

*

By three in the morning, Claude wanted to hang himself, or the next person who wanted something from him in any capacity. While all of his esteemed guests could take leave to sleep off their forthcoming hangovers all day if they so wished, Claude had to be up at the godless crack of dawn and start the damage control.

“You look like you’ve been in battle, not dancing with pretty girls,” Nader snorted, waiting for him at the top of the staircase to the suite with an unwelcome air of smugness. He must have finished his sweep early, if he felt secure enough to speak Almyran. “The night is still young, my prince!”

“The night can sod off,” he responded, too tired to think of a more witty comeback. “If you were hoping for some after-party drinks, I’ll have to disappoint you.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare to impose,” Nader tapped the side of his nose. “Someone left a gift for you. I figure I’ll leave the youth to do its thing.”

Claude waved him off, and locked the door to his chambers behind him. Whatever love note a tipsy girl cooked up for him, it could wait until the morning.

Godsdamn. It nearly _was_ the morning. Claude struggled out of his red-and-gold doublet, abandoning it and the ruffle on the armchair. He’d briefly considered just falling into bed in his shirt and breeches.

The conversation with Ingrid weighed on him heavily. Perhaps heavier than it should; after all, it only confirmed what he’d already known. That the shadow of Dimitri was long enough to reach him here, five years later and fighting a war that wasn’t his to begin with…

Who was he kidding, really? He was his mother’s son, as everybody liked to remind him so often. She had maybe two full conversations with her husband before ditching everything she’s ever known to follow him. Claude had hoped to be more level-headed than that, when it came to the matters of heart. What a foolish notion.

Dimitri was gone. Claude knew that the last time they spoke, really, even before he died a traitor in Imperial captivity. Maybe that was why he was so hard to shake off. Claude always knew of that dark, uncontrollable side of Dimitri he’d been so careful to keep hidden; he should have predicted it would break out of control after Edelgard’s betrayal. He should have done more to help, to keep him grounded. But people had looked up to Claude, and Teach asked him to lead the archers prep. He’d chosen to ease some unknown, unremembered students’ fears for a few days instead of checking in on the man he loved. He couldn’t even regret it; he knew to listen to Teach when it mattered. But the prize was… this. An empty bed in a full palace.

Claude allowed himself a minute to wallow in self pity, before finally donning the nightclothes and bringing the candle closer to the bed. Only then did he see the rose.

A single, perfect, red flower, sat in an unfamiliar vase on his very own bedside table. For a second, he thought he must be seeing things in his exhaustion. There was a note attached, and it took an embarrassing amount of time to convince himself to read it. 

_My deepest regards, L._

Godsdamn it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay D: As you might be able to tell, I signed up for a gift exchange and focused on that for a while, and when I came back to this, it hissed, bit me in the ass and ran into the woods. 
> 
> But it is slightly longer! I think!? 
> 
> Also, if my own personal brand of Headcanon(tm) of the story confuses anyone, please let me know. I try to be fairly clear where any game stuff actually needs to be known, but it's hard enough to keep track of my own feet these days.


	7. 1185: two drops of water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude decides to take the Millennium celebrations into his own hands.
> 
> (Or: Everything comes up Claude, in the end.)

_With smiles and kisses, we prefer_

_to seek accord beneath our star,_

_although we're different (we concur)_

_just as two drops of water are._

\-- Nothing Twice, Wisława Szymborska

“You’re out of your damn mind, boy,” Nader kept cursing under his breath as he shoved maps and rations into Claude’s saddle bags. “Could’ve at least waited until morning.”

“Edmund wants to meet in the morning,” Claude said, petting the wyvern’s nose to calm her down. “And I don’t fancy being stuck in Derdriu for another week.”

“This is a bad idea, Khalid,” the old man complained. “I can’t sit in those meetings yet, Goneril might recognise me up close. You’ll be deaf and blind in that regard.”

“Not necessarily. I told you, I’ve been preparing. Ordelia will make sure the lords don’t get up to no good.”

“And the merchant's guild?”

“The guildmaster and I have come to an understanding,” Claude winked over his shoulder. “He won’t be causing any trouble.”

“But--”

“I’ve made sure Gloucester is tied up pretending he hasn’t just handed the Myrddin bridge over to the Empire, the miners have been paid for the year, I’ve had soldiers dispatched to deal with the bandits on the Lancaster Road, and I bribed Judith to stop giving you a hard time every time she’s in town,” he counted out on his fingers. Nader opened his mouth to respond, found himself without any arguments, and closed it again.

In a way, the satisfaction of rendering him speechless was its own reward for the small eternity he’d spent on endless political back-and-forth. Claude knew he wasn’t really in position to be leaving Derdriu for any significant amount of time; this was why he had Nader come to Fódlan in the first place. He had, at best, two to three moons to figure out if Garreg Mach was worth the effort. 

“With all of your concerns accounted for…,” Claude climbed up the wyvern’s back. “Time to go.”

“You’re such an insufferable brat,” Nader groaned. Then, just as Claude led the wyvern out of roost and spurred her to take flight, he shouted: “Don’t get killed!”

*

To say that Claude had a plan for this was something of an exaggeration. 

He’d been thinking about it for a while, yes, and dropping hints in his letters to classmates without outwardly reminding them about the Establishment Day. To Hilda, of the dress she’d had made for the ball, and never got to wear, thanks to Seteth’s strict dress code allowing only uniforms. To Leonie, suggesting that the date might attract fool-hardy pilgrims to the area, some of whom might require services of a mercenary familiar with the area. Marianne mentioned it herself, actually, wondering what Seiros would think of her monastery abandoned on such a momentous anniversary. It was definitely on everybody’s mind, whether by Claude’s design or not. And Claude was nothing if not an opportunist.

It seemed simple, in his head. His old classmates would gather, driven by memories and sentiment. They’d have a bit of a pity party, a few drinks, maybe clear out whoever took residence in the crumbling walls. Then, Claude would float the idea of forming a resistance against the Empire. A smidgen manipulative, perhaps, but it was well past the time Claude did _something_ to stand up to Edelgard, and people fought better when they had a common idea to unite behind.

There, of course, was the fix. Claude didn’t feel comfortable passing himself off as the said idea; he was well-liked, but not particularly well-trusted, and had other plans for the future besides. He could think of only two people that masses would rally behind. They were both reportedly dead, but Claude didn’t let minor details set him back. Teach never did.

He’d been thinking of his old professor a lot during the flight to Garreg Mach. Travel on wyvern was fast and relatively comfortable, but didn’t exactly provide much opportunity for a conversation. He’d sent most of his Immortal Corps ahead portions at a time, to avoid drawing attention to his movements, and had only three of his junior archers with him for the trip. Even if not for the wind drowning out any noise, the lads were still a little too serious for their trousers to engage in chit chat.

“Signal ahead!,” the point man shouted against the gale. True to his word, a campfire was set up at the edge of the woods below, the Riegan flag wrapped around a tree like a bandage, invisible from the ground. They were still a bit far off their mark, but Claude did tell the captain to retreat if they encountered any issues. After all, the Empress might have had a similar idea to him, if in the opposite direction. She would be missing quite a few classmates, though.

As they came to land, and the scene before him became clearer, Claude could only curse his damn luck. He’d asked Darius to keep the battalion loosely together, but the meager numbers were an obvious indication that something had gone wrong along the way. That, and Darius himself limping along on a makeshift crutch towards him.

“Boss,” the captain said as soon as Claude dismounted, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Got ourselves into a pickle, I’m afraid.”

“I can see that,” Claude glanced around, taking in the paltry campsite. He handed the wyvern’s reins off to one of the juniors and helped Darius to the side. “What happened?”

The man was smiling, but in the very Almyran meaning of the word; he was angry, guilty and embarrassed all at once. He must have lost a battle. Claude had expected Edelgard to want to commemorate the Establishment day in her own way; that’s why he set off a couple of days early in the first place, to figure out if Garreg Mach was even an option. Who could have beaten them to it, then…?

“We got ambushed like a bunch of babies,” Darius growled. “We staked out the castle, set up camp in the village --not a soul, the entire time-- and then bam!,” he slammed a fist into his palm. “A whole godsdamn army crawled out of the ground. Through the sewers, I mean, not like… zombie magic.”

The Abyss…? Claude made sure he had the general idea of Yuri’s whereabouts. He and his seemed to have dispersed into the surrounding lands, and Balthus let slip that he was last seen in Rowe territory. Then again, by the time they had to surrender the monastery, every student and their pet rocks knew about the corridors beneath. 

“Any banners?,” he asked. Darius gave a shrug.

“Oh, all kinds. No two same shields between them. Wild like a pack of dogs, but good generals.”

“Oh?”

Darius rubbed at his stubble. 

“Two I could pick out, if only ‘cause they wore some better gear. The younger one, that was a real dastard. Couldn’t predict a move on him, there, stab and gone. And an old red-head, had a mean axe on ‘im but we scrambled before he got to use it.”

“How many gone?”

Darius, like Claude, was an alumni of Nader’s school of battle strategy, which was why he’d lived to become the captain of the battalion. He was also a half-blood, like Claude, which was why he remained in charge when Nader brought them over the mountains. They’ve had a good relationship ever since, and now Claude was certain the man could be trusted. Judging by the shape his face contorted into, he was really kicking himself over the losses.

“The whole left wing,” he admitted through his teeth. “The old red-head was shouting himself hoarse about taking prisoners, but most of the dogs weren’t listening.”

“Hm…”

An idea was forming in Claude’s head. The descriptions provided by Darius were lacking at best, but if he could get visual confirmation of his suspicions…

“Boss?”

“I need your stealthiest people,” Claude said. “Ones that can run, ideally.” 

*

Claude used to be a lot better at sneaking around. Raphael’s brand of daily training allowed him to wield an axe, sure, but also thickened his limbs in a way his old instincts weren’t familiar with. Thankfully, he didn’t need to stumble through the darkened corridors for too long, before one of his men raised a hand to signal them all to stop.

“Patrol of one,” he whispered, and they all melted into the shadows. Claude’s borrowed brown cloak was doing little to shield him from the damp cold of the bricks he pressed his back against, but at least it blended in well. 

The decreasing numbers of patrolmen they’ve snuck past so far was, hopefully, a good sign. If they could make it past the next junction, Claude knew of a passage that would take them from the Abyss straight into the barn behind the greenhouse. From there, provided the destruction of the monastery wasn’t too extensive, Claude could make his way to the Goddess’ tower in a wink, unseen, and have a pretty good view of the rest of the grounds. 

And the plan worked, for once. He left two of his men guarding their escape route, and one in the broken stairwell of the tower to act as a lookout. The westerners who gave Darius such a thrashing mostly stayed in the village, with only minimal presence in the monastery proper. They were Kingdom men, all of them, and Claude recognised some noble sigils among their equipment. They were fed and watered above what Claude would consider normal for a roving mercenary band, and the patrol routes seemed oddly… familiar. Just like the ones he’d avoided during his school days, which wouldn’t be surprising if he was right about the identity of the old red-haired general. 

If he was right --and he was, he could feel it-- Gilbert would do his usual walk around soon enough, and find Claude’s note wrapped around the shaft of an arrow stuck in the ground in his path.

As he perched on the half-collapsed windowsill at the top of the tower, Claude couldn’t help but notice that the damages to the monastery were mostly cosmetic. The living quarters were barely touched, and the fire seemed to have been contained to the market square and the cathedral. With a little bit of work, this could easily become a bastion against the south…

He heard the wet, gurgling sound of a slit throat, then a heavy thud of a body rolling down the stairs. Gods-bloody-damn it.

“There’s nowhere to hide here, rat,” came a growl from the corridor, closer and closer with every second. The voice was right; the only way out of sight of anyone standing in the door was down. Claude nocked an arrow, drew--

His breath caught.

Dimitri stared at him from the crumbling doorway. One of his eyes was covered with an eyepatch, and he still clutched a bloody dagger in one hand. 

“I should have known…,” he said, stepping into the chamber as if Claude’s bow wasn’t trained on his chest, “That one day, you would be haunting me as well.”

Claude’s head was empty, muscles locked in place and the tip of the arrow trembling. Dimitri crept forward still, dropping the dagger as he went, the clatter of metal on stone incredibly loud in the silence of the Goddess’ tower. 

“Dima--,” his voice hitched. “You’re-- you’re not the dead man I expected to meet here.”

He didn’t know what to do next. Dimitri pushed his bow away like it was a branch in his path, and Claude let him, both the weapon and the arrow falling by his feet. He’d grown even taller, or perhaps simply stopped hunching his shoulders, towering over Claude like a great big oak in a blood-stained cloak. He reached out a gloved hand, the same one that previously held the dagger-- 

All the air left Claude’s lungs as he was slammed into the jagged wall next to the window, Dimitri’s grip like a vice over his throat. 

“Dima!,” he croaked out. “Dima, please--!”

“Have you come to spy on me?,” Dimitri’s words barely penetrated the enclosing wall of darkness at the edges of his vision. “Have you come to kill me? Answer me!”

Claude tried to protest, but had no breath left to speak. For a single, terrifying moment, he was sure he was going to die there, in the same place they’d first embraced, and the only thought rattling around his brain was… he’d been right. The Dimitri he’d known in the academy was long gone.

There was-- a noise, he couldn’t quite tell through the fog. Then, he was on his knees, gasping, the air re-entering his lungs like a drink of icy water. It _hurt_ , and he knew he had to get back up, had to find his bow-- 

“--can’t even tell friend from foe, you beast?!”

“Get out of my way!”

“Your majesty, please, we must speak with him--”

By the time Claude stumbled up, feeling like his head might come off at the slightest provocation, he could just glimpse Dimitri’s dark cloak disappearing down the staircase. Felix --of course it was Felix, there, stab and gone-- roared something intelligible and ran after him. Which left Claude, still struggling for breath, alone with none other than Gilbert.

Gilbert, who rushed to help him stand, muttering apologies and curses both. He was greyer at the temples, thinner, the wrinkle between his brows deeper than ever. Claude had never been happier to see the man in his life.

No. ‘Happy’ wasn’t the exact word he’d use.

“Thank the Goddess I found your note,” Gilbert said, allowing him to collect himself. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’m--,” Claude coughed. He sounded like a dying wyvern. “I’m beginning to realise.”

*

“His majesty has… been through a lot. He’s not himself, these days.”

Claude didn’t respond to that, focusing on dripping water into his abused throat. Gilbert had brought him down to the village, ordering release of the captured Immortal Corps soldiers from a rather grouchy commander of the post. They were reluctant to leave Claude alone, but he wasn’t ready to make his way back quite yet, and wanted to reassure Darius that he wasn’t dead. The man wouldn’t risk his men to do something stupid, like launch a rescue mission, but there was no need to work him up unnecessarily. Half of them insisted on waiting for him in the thickets outside the village, and that suited him just fine.

“We won’t be staying here long,” Gilbert continued. “We were pushed back from the border, and Felix managed to convince his majesty to regroup in the homeland. If the Alliance desires ownership of the monastery, that’s between you and the Knights of Seiros.”

The Knights, who were travelling back from their unsuccessful search for Rhea in Sreng as they spoke. Claude had paid one of Alois’ adjutants handsomely for keeping him updated. 

“You say you were pushed back,” every word hurt like a thousand needles. Or like five fingers. “Were you followed?”

Gilbert looked grim. “No, although Randolph isn’t a fool. He’ll send scouts. If you have plans for this place, I would say you have…,” he considered it, careful as always, “maybe three, four weeks at most. He’ll have to resupply first.”

Claude had heard the rumours, even if he didn’t put much stock in them until now. He didn’t have to ask to know that this-- this _version_ of Dimitri would have ordered every silo between the battlefield and Garreg Mach burnt to the ground. The imperial army would have to wait for reinforcements from the capitol, too, or risk relinquishing their hold on Myrddin Bridge or the western territories. Claude had sworn to himself to never allow the common people --Leicestrian or Adrestian-- to go hungry for the sake of a cleaner retreat. What was the point of ruling over death and ashes, after all? The old Dimitri would have agreed. 

Gilbert watched him like a hawk, but if he was hoping for a confirmation on Claude’s plans, he had another think coming. Unfortunately, the old man had something else in mind entirely.

“Would you… Would you speak to him again?”

He might have as well ripped Claude’s heart out of his chest. Gilbert must have confused his silence for indecision, because he kept talking.

“He’s still in there, I know it. He’d suffered so much… His deep hatred, and the weight of his solitude, have consumed him for far too long. But I believe we can bring him back from the edge, if only--”

“Gilbert,” Gilbert looked at him, and his shoulders sagged as if Claude had ruled him to hang. “There’s nothing left of Dimitri in that man.”

“Your grace...”

“I will await your leave in my camp. Take care not to tarry.”

Only his mother’s pride allowed him to walk away with his head high, ignoring the doubts and second thoughts that descended on him near on immediately. Every step was a new reason to turn back -- he could use this alliance. The Empire’s forces were far greater than he could stand against on his own, and Dimitri’s slapdash army clearly had the experience of slaughtering them with no remorse. Especially with Gilbert to keep the men in check. Then, recovering Felix might earn him gratitude from Duke Fraldarius, and perhaps his assistance too. Gautier and Galatea would surely follow--

He remembered to wipe his face with his sleeve before joining his own men outside the village.

*

To say that Claude was in a foul mood the following two days was an understatement.

Darius and his men avoided him like the plague; Claude, unlike Nader, wasn’t in the habit of taking his frustrations out on those under his command, but he wasn’t exactly a pleasant company either. A vulnerary brought down the swelling around his windpipe, but most of the stock went to those previously captured and more gravely injured, so he had a painful ring of bruises to remind him of his foolishness every time he turned his head. 

Still, he kept his ruffle on and, after a sleepless night of consideration, wrote to Ingrid. Nothing too obvious, he couldn’t count on his raven not to be intercepted, but only someone privy to their midnight conversation on Foundation Day would recognise the warning for what it was. For all he knew, the Galateas already knew of Dimitri’s miraculous survival, and kept it a secret either out of shame, or because they were sworn to. 

Dimitri didn’t strike Claude like a man you’d swear to, anymore. Swear at, perhaps.

“The scouts are back,” Darius told him, the morning of the Establishment Day. “The mercenaries are gone. Zaria spotted some look-outs in the village on the eastern side of the mountain, though.”

“Right,” at least he sounded like himself again. “Gather everyone up. It’s time to go.”

The flight up proved much more pleasant than sneaking through the Abyss, and if nothing else, served to clear his head a little. His plan hasn’t changed --he’d gained more information, in fact-- and other than his stupid heart, nothing was broken beyond repair. The monastery was still in a good enough shape to operate out of, he had friends he could count on to show up. The prince was barely a hiccup, in the grand scheme of things. Circling over the cathedral grounds, blessedly empty of all Kingdom presence, Claude felt his shoulder relax a fraction. He could do this.

The monastery’s roost required only a few moments of a clean up to house the wyverns, at least for the time being. That matter resolved, Claude ordered Darius to keep out of sight unless attacked, and climbed the steps of the Goddess’ tower once more, and with only a moment of hesitation.

He had a pack of provisions and a bottle of wine with him, but resolved to wait. It was early afternoon, the sun casting its warm embrace over the lands below, and Claude figured there were worse places to waste a few hours. He sunned himself like a cat until a glimmer of movement caught his eye.

When he spotted the flash of green hair moving decidedly across the gardens, he nearly collapsed in relief. He’d hoped; he’d been doing a whole lot of hoping, these past five years. To see Teach march towards him like an inevitable end, with no concern for traps or ambushes, felt like-- oh, he had no idea what it felt like. He’d never felt like it before.

And then, just as the professor reached the bottom of the tower, Claude noticed a cloud of dust rising over the Myrddin Road. It was too far to see the standards, but they were coming from the direction of Leicester. By the time Teach joined him at the top, Claude found himself smiling. 

Everything was coming up his way in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's definitely much, much more stuff I wanted to write for this, but seeing as I've been running critically low on spoons, I don't want to leave the thing incomplete forever. So obviously some bits are unfinished, but there might be an epilogue at some point? Sorry :(

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hi welcome to hurting Claude time. This thing got kinda expansive, and so the tagging is... difficult. Please let me know if you reckon I missed anything, especially in the following chapters.


End file.
